


The Rite Ritual aka Satan & Chill

by KassieProphet



Series: Ghost Prompts [47]
Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: D/s, F/M, Hair-pulling, Mild Blood, POV Female Character, Ritual Sex, Rope Bondage, Sensory Deprivation, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:14:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26595052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KassieProphet/pseuds/KassieProphet
Summary: Tumblr Prompt:Papas III, II, & IV having ritualistic altar sex with a fem s/o?
Relationships: Papa Emeritus II/Reader, Papa Emeritus III/Reader, Papa Emeritus IV/Reader
Series: Ghost Prompts [47]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1536134
Comments: 37
Kudos: 44





	1. Papa III

It’s a big night for you: Papa III had submitted your name to be ceremonial sacrifice for this High Unholy day, and the Senior Clergy had found you acceptable. It was a great honor.

You don the white shift—satin with foamy edging—before covering yourself in the black ritual cape. Your hair is bound, secured by one pin that bears the structural integrity of the knot admirably. Though your face is bare of makeup, you curled your eyelashes, wanting the doe-eyed innocent effect. 

As you make your way to the Chapel down the silent halls, your slippered feet—white flats to match your shift— _tap tap tap_ softly against the stone floors of The Abbey. When you reach the hall, you find that the doors are closed, but two Abbey Ghouls pull the heavy blackwood doors open for you, the wood creaking and the iron hinged moaning. 

The light and smell of hundreds of altar candles hit you in the face as you step into the doorway. Even as the faces of the congregation turn at your solitary procession, you keep your eyes trained on the only important thing in the room: Papa Emeritus III. He stands straight-backed and regal-looking in his formal vestments, a true son of the line.

He winks at you.

As you walk down the carpeted aisle toward your lover and spiritual leader, you realize the choir is singing a soft hymn.

_As the parish sighs in smoke_

_Enters lady revealed of cloak_

_To the haunting sound of the monstrance clock_

When you reach the steps, you take a knee and bow your head. You sense movement around you, and then there are two altar Ghouls beside you. One unknots the clasp at your neck while the other hands you a goblet of ritual wine. You take a sip, and the full-bodied flavor excites your tongue as you roll the tart, black cherry taste around your mouth before swallowing.

The Ghoul takes the goblet back just as Papa bids you rise. As you straighten back up, your black cape falls open, exposing the shift and how it clings to your naked body. When you catch Papa’s gaze, you detect a subtle uptick of his painted lips before he gestures you up the stairs to join him where he’s standing in front of the stone ritual altar.

Once you reach him, he turns you around sharply as his one hand yanks off your cape so you are revealed fully in your diaphanous shift to the full pews.

“Before us stands Dear Sister. A willing ritual sacrifice. She is a pert offering, no?”

As he says this, his gloved hand runs lightly down your breasts and belly, briefly pressing into the space between your legs before it and the heat of his body disappears from your space. Desire pools in your belly, and you tremble with anticipation as the congregation murmurs in agreement.

“Sister. Come.”

You turn and see Papa—his one hand held out in an offering—standing beside the ritual altar on which lies a silk sheet and a fluffy pillow. Taking a deep breath, you step forward and take Papa’s outstretched hand, the lambskin soft against your palm. Using his grip as an aide, you hop up onto the altar and instantly can feel the cool of the hard stone discernible even through the sheet. You shuffle backwards and adjust yourself until you are lying as comfortably as you can.

Papa holds out his arms, and four Ghouls appear at his sides—2 to undress him and 2 to take possession of the layers. The mitre is removed from his head first, with the cope following after. The first 2 Ghouls are quick and efficient (one could say _practiced_ ), and the other two Ghouls have to scurry to keep up. They divest Papa of his chasuble next and then slip off his gloves. Last, they yank off his alb from the bottom up over his head, ruffling locks of his ebony hair; underneath he’s bare, and his chest and pubic hair stand out starkly against his pale skin; his cock is already half hard.

When your nipples pebble, you’re not sure if it’s from the draft or from seeing your lover’s naked form in front of you. His posture remains erect, controlled, but you’re close enough to see the wanton hunger that burns in the pits of his mismatched eyes. He stalks over to the altar and crawls over you. Instantly, you feel the heat radiating off his body.

As he stares down at your face, you think he’s about to kiss you, but instead he straightens up to rest on his haunches while straddling your body. He holds out his hand, and one of the Ghouls brings forward a purple velvet pillow, on which rests the ritual knife. Papa’s eyes flick briefly to the Ghoul, making a grabby motion, and the Ghoul carefully places the knife—handle first—into his grip before slinking away.

As expected, Papa murmurs, “Your hand, _cara_.” Smiling, you raise your left hand to him, and he grasps onto it before placing a gentle kiss to your palm; then he holds your hand out and readies the ritual knife—the candlelight glinting off the sharp edge.

“You are a willing sacrifice, yes, Sister?”

“Yes, Dark Excellency.”

Without further warning, he slashes down your palm, quick but deep. Despite being prepared for this step, you hiss and flinch, but Papa’s grip holds true. The blood from your slitted wound trickles down your arm and drips off your elbow to run in rivulets down your white shift and the sheet, staining both in the process. You can’t tell if there’s a low hum from the crowd, or if it’s the blood rushing through your ears, but you do know your Papa is smiling down softly at you.

When the trickle slows and your blood starts to clot, Papa snaps his fingers, and two Ghouls hurry forward to wrap your hand; as they bind the wound, they also bind together your wrists and secure them to a hook at the top of the altar.

Dick twitching and white eye flashing, Papa leans down and _riiiiiiiiiips_ your shift down the middle from neckline to hem, your breasts falling heavily to each side. Your heart rate picks up as he hastily manhandles your legs so they splay out to each side, revealing just where his cock needs to land true. Unaccustomed to cold air on your sensitive lips, you tremble, which he mistakes as nerves.

“ _Shh_ , it is O.K., _mia dolce_.”

He runs his hands down your sides, then your flanks. He sucks two fingers into his mouth, then brings them down to your clit. When the slick pads make contact, you jolt and moan at the pleasurable feeling. As he continues to gently circle you and lightly trace your folds, you start to thrash against your restraints, your legs kicking out in silted jerks. His digits dip down occasionally to press at your hole, and you practically drool at the feeling. 

“Ai! The ruddy flush of your cunt is _bellissimo_ , _amore_!”

You moan and press down into his fingers, rapidly approaching your little death.

“ _Sí_ , little one,” he coos. “Cum for your Papa.” Then, louder, “In this Church we celebrate the female orgasm, do we not?”

You barely hear the cheer of agreement as your brain whites out and you climax loudly, the waves of your orgasm fizzing up your body. As you bask in the warm glow of your aftershocks, you’re dimly aware of Papa adjusting your legs to his shoulders, but your focus swiftly rushes back and sobers you the instant he impales you with his throbbing cock.

“Oh, _Papa_!”

Pussy still slick from your release, the wet squelch of him bottoming out with each thrust seems to be the loudest sound in the Chapel, even over your moans and his grunts. You rock your hips into him as much as your positioning allows, luxuriating in the silky glide of his cock as it thrusts slowly in and out of you. It’s not long before Papa speeds up, each pump now punching into your G-spot, and your eyes roll back. 

When your head lolls toward the congregation, you’re suddenly aware of how every single gaze is focused intently on the two of you; more than one hand is pressed between legs. If you could flush further you would, but instead, you turn your head to the other side.

The press of warm lips to your ankle bone has your attention back on your lover. Sweat trickles down from his temples, and perspiration has made the rest of his flesh dewy. He winks at you before letting your legs slide back down so he can lean down over you. He captures your mouth in a kiss, moaning into your mouth as you wrap your legs around his thick waist and pull him into you. Letting out a pleased moan, Papa begins to speed up, hurrying toward completion (you know he has excellent stamina, but that’s not what this ritual is about), and his face smears down your cheek and into the crook of your neck. He’s no longer hitting your G-stop, but your pussy still tingles in pleasure as he grinds into you. The loud slap of his skin on yours echoes off the high ceilings as Papa mewls Italian into your neck.

You know he’s close when he raises himself up enough to wiggle a hand in between your bodies to flick at your clit.

“Oh, yes!” you cry out, and Papa begs _PleasePleasePlease_ that you’ll cum again and he can let go.

It’s not a great position, but you were already primed before he started fucking you, and now even more blood has pooled between your legs. Your clit pulsates, and the rest of your cunt spasms in answer. You feel your pussy tighten hard around his cock, and you let out a little _OhOhOh_ right before you crest and the crashing waves of your climax milks him.

Papa suddenly drops down and hooks his arms around your shoulders right before he really begins to rail into you. His breath is hot and moist on your shoulder as he closes his eyes and fucks you with a single-mindedness to his own completion. He cums with a growl and a hard, deep thrust into you, and then he shifts himself up to his knees to ride out the aftershocks, pulling you onto his cock by your hips.

“The wine,” he snaps, and a Ghoul—pants tented—hurries over to hand Papa the goblet. Papa immediately upturns the chalice and pours the wine over your body so that it stains your flesh and pools in your clavicle and belly button. After he shakes the last drop free, he leans down to lap the wine off your stomach, tongue trailing up to your tits, before finishing at your neck.

The two of you stay like that for a moment—you blissed out and Papa panting into your skin as the congregation softly chants—until you feel your wrists unbind. Your arms tingle when you bring them back down, but Papa rubs your wrists and brings your hand up for another kiss. He helps you off the altar before raising up your joined hands. A chorus of cheers starts up as the altar Ghouls hurry over to cover Papa and you with robes, with which you gladly wrap around to cover yourself.

Papa III claps his hands together to get the attention of his flock.

“Ai! Proceed to the quad for the orgiastic revelry, _per favore_. Sister and I shall follow shortly.” When the crowd hesitates, he makes a shooing motion. “Show is over! _Andare_!”

After the last congregate leaves (Nihil shuffling along with his oxygen tank), you start to leave the platform, but Papa pulls you back by the excess of your robe.

“Papa?” you ask with the arch of an eyebrow.

“What say you to round 2, hmm? Shall we honor our Dark Lord a few times more?”

“If it’s at the soft altar of your pillow-top mattress, we can honor him all night, Papa.”


	2. Papa II

Papa II likes his games.

Which is why you now find yourself blindfolded and hanging from restraints, your tippy toes just barely touching the floor. He loves using the blindfold to tease your senses and keep you guessing. Tonight he had hinted that he had something big in store for you, and you’re sure he didn’t mean letting you stew in your sight deprivation.

You have no idea if you’ve been like this for one hour or four, so once you finally hear the click of the bolt, you sag a little in relief. You know better than to cry out for him—Papa’s rules: no talking—but you do strain your ears for anything you can pick up on. When you hear the _click click click_ of dress shoes on the floor before the plush carpet swallows up the steps, you know instantly that whoever it is who’s entered, it’s not Papa.

When clawed hands touch your arms, you flinch more from surprise than actual fear, but the hands hesitate all the same. A soft, soothing chittering erupts before the hands are on you once again, unhooking your chains from the hook. Before feeling can fully return to your arms, the Ghoul tugs on your lead chain in a quick, staccato jerk.

With careful, hesitant steps, you shuffle searchingly off the carpet and onto the cold, concrete floor. You pause at the door—expecting a robe—but all you get is another insistent tug on your chains. The playroom is heated, but the chill air of The Abbey hits your nudity as you make your way out and into the hall and back onto carpet. The Ghoul goes slow, which you appreciate, but this isn’t your first rodeo—you could find your way to the stairs … well … blindfolded.

The thin, rough carpet protects your feet as you make your way down the corridor, when the chain jerks you away from the passage to the stairs and toward … the _other wing_. You’re surprised because Papa warned you never to venture further into the bowels of The Abbey—into the crannies where the _real_ worshipping was done.

When the carpet ends and your bare feet hit the cold stone floor, you stop and make a cry of consternation—there’s no way you want to walk over rough, uncovered stone. Reflexively, you pull back, and the chain goes taut; you feel the Ghoul get jerked back, and they chitter in annoyance, giving a few warning tugs—but you don’t budge. You hear the metallic clinking of the links as the Ghoul backtracks. 

Another tug, but you point down at the ground and shake your head. You don’t understand the noise the Ghoul lets out, but it sounds an awful lot like a curse. Before you can make another protestation, they collect you up into their arms and continue on. The Ghoul sets a brisk pace, the soles of their shoes _tap tap tapping_ down the corridor.

You only know you’ve entered a room because you hear Papa clear his throat, and the sound echoes close off the walls.

“Oh?” he says. It’s a casual tone, but anyone who knows him would hear the dangerous undertone.

“Bare floor,” rasps the Ghoul. It’s not a voice you recognize, not one of his Ghouls.

“Hmm. I see.” There’s a rustle of cloth, and then you feel the warmth of his skin through leather as your Papa chucks you under the chin. “We can’t have you damaged, now can we, my pet?” 

Your ass disagrees, but you hold your tongue.

“You may lay her out on the altar,” he says, and the Ghoul kicks into motion again. Before you know it, they’re laying you out on a stone altar, and you yip as the cold material makes contact with your bare skin.

Papa just chuckles.

Before you can wonder what the hell is going on, chanting starts up—you hadn’t even realized there were others in this room. Automatically you curl into yourself, but then there’s a _crack_ followed by a very insistent sting on your back. You let out an “Ah!” just as he says,

“ _Tetch_ , now that’s not the way we behave in front of company, is it?” You whimper. “Lay back now, pet.”

You lay back down, the chill of the stone a shock to your skin everywhere it touches—though it does ease the sting of the switch a bit. When you start trembling, you feel Papa run his gloved hands down you—half in comfort, half possessively. The air around you shifts, and when he speaks, it’s right up close to your ear.

“Do you trust your Papa?”

“Yes, sir.” It’s more of a sigh of resignation than a proclamation. You _do_ trust him—even if you’re sure you’re going to like what comes next as much as the blindfold. 

“Then we will proceed.”

He claps his hands, and the chanting gets louder. You think it’s Latin. Or maybe Arabic? Papa II’s voice joins in, and you can tell the lines breaks because you get spattered with something cold and wet whenever one occurs. A sweet scent fills your nose, and your senses are telling you it’s the same one you’re used to smelling on his ceremonial vestments. When Papa draws a Grucifix on your forehead, you’re pretty sure it’s with some kind of oil.

Then he’s dipping the pad of a finger into your mouth and pressing your jaw open.

“Will you receive the Antichrist?”

“Yes, sir.”

With one hand he tilts up your head; with the other he places a spice wafer on your tongue, then gives you a sip of mulled wine. Once you’re done swallowing, Papa lets your head back down. Even on alert with what to expect next, you’re still startled when he grabs you by the armpits and pulls you back until your head is dangling over the edge. Two of his leather-clad fingers enter your mouth and go straight back.

At this point in your relationship with Papa, it takes a lot more than two fingers to make you gag.

He lets out a pleased rumble and says, “Will you receive me, my Child?”

“Yeth, thir,” you try to say around his fingers.

Chuckling, he removes his fingers. There’s a bit of rustling, and then he’s pressing the head of his cock to your lips. You widen your mouth and relax your muscles, and Papa’s thick cock slides effortlessly into your mouth and down your throat. A good girl, you remember to keep lax and breath through your nose.

Papa pets down your cheek and throat before he starts thrusting in and out of your mouth. Just a vessel, you let him use your orifice, content to float in your subspace as spit, snot, and tears run off your face. When he pulls free before you can taste his release, you whimper and try to chase after his cock.

Again, he chuckles. “Not just yet, pet.” A thumb hooks in your cheek. “I have something better planned.”

Before your head has time to clear, hands are lifting you up and rearranging your limbs. You feel the glide of the rope over your skin just as you realize that Papa and the Ghoul are trussing you up; you melt into the feel of the rope looping around you and securing your limbs. By the time the two of them are done with you, you’re suspended in a cradle of ropes hovering above the altar, limbs anchored to each other for Papa’s easy access to your cunt.

You let yourself float—letting the ropes hold all your weight—dimly aware of the shift of fabric against your naked flesh as your ass bumps against Papa’s hips when he sheaths his cock in you. As you swing slightly, you moan—uncaring whether it’s from the feeling of being cradled by the ropes, of Papa’s cock pumping in and out of you, or both. Whatever the reason, it’s very pleasant, and you’re content to let Papa use your body, feeling the ropes rustle against each other in whisper-quiet swishes.

It’s not until Papa is pounding into you, tugging frantically onto the ropes, that your consciousness swims more to the surface. You’re suddenly aware that he’s punching into your G-spot, and you moan louder; if your head could loll, it would—but it too is bound firmly in place. Hearing you and feeling you clench seems only to encourage him to fuck you faster, harder. 

You hadn’t even realized how turned on your body was until it surprises you with an orgasm; you’re already one giant nerve ending, so you scream out as waves of pleasure ripple through you, and you clamp down hard on Papa II’s cock as your pussy pops and spasms like a sparking live wire. You slump in completion (as much as you can bound up as you are), brain fogging over again even as Papa slams into you over and over until he’s growling and snarling, grinding his pelvis into as he climaxes. You just float away …

When you come back to yourself fully, you’re once again lying on the cold stone slab; gentle hands are untying the ropes and massaging your flesh. Meticulous as ever, Papa loosens each knot and coil, massages each area where the ropes pressed or where you were contorted before he even comes close to taking off your blindfold.

He helps you to sit up and then drapes a soft blanket over you; that’s when you finally feel the tug on the strings of your blindfold. The only light in the room is the glow of the ritual candles, but even that is too bright for your eyes, and you whine.

“Easy, pet,” he coos as fingers rub across your cheek.

Once you’re able to focus, you look around at your surroundings; the stone room is dark and dank, and the light from the flames seems to be swallowed up by the darkness in the corners. There is a table in one corner and next to it is a set of shelves with supplies. 

Basically, your standard garden-level, sacrificial dungeon. 

What _does_ surprise you is the lack of anyone else in the room, despite the loud chanting.

When you swivel your head around, you see that the Ghoul sits on a chair in the corner (reading a book) next to another chair with a boombox on it. At the sound of Papa clearing his throat, they look up; taking stock of the scene in front of them, they reach over and press the tip of a claw into a button, thus shutting off the stereo and cutting off the canned voices mid chant. The room is left in silence except for the flickering of the candles and the slight whistle of a draft.

“ _Papa_ ,” you giggle drunkenly as you lightly smack his shoulders.

He brings your hand up to his mouth and kisses your knuckles. 

“Just a bit of ambiance, pet.”

He does like his scenes _just so_.


	3. Papa IV

It’s been a year since you’d first seen Copia at a Ritual outside of your Podunk town. You didn’t know it was possible to feel so strongly about a man you hadn’t even heard of until that night, but when he grabbed your hand and clutched it to his chest while crooning, _I can see through the scars inside you_ , you were signed, sealed, delivered. The rest was a whirlwind: being approached by security; a night spent in Copia’s arms that had turned into a week, 2 weeks … a month; and finally, a one-way ticket to Sweden.

The Abbey was at once everything and nothing you’d expected it to be. It was both welcoming and a trial. Of the initiates, a vast majority were legacies, and of those whom had Copia handpicked at Rituals, none had spent more than a night with him. It had been a hard year proving your mettle as you shared Copia’s bed—especially since most of the other Initiates wanted nothing to do with you—but you were finally here for your Induction having passed Sister Imperator’s grueling final interview with flying colors.

Now you’re waiting outside one of the ceremonial rooms on an ornate stone bench in your red & gold Initiate’s robe, leg jiggling with anticipatory energy. You’re looking forward to the Ritual Initiation—most people do—but you also can’t wait to slip on that fresh Sister’s habit after and show all those haters you’re here to stay and they can deal with it.

Usually Initiates waited until the mass Induction Day—where each Papa would help ring in the new members during a day-long service in the Chapel—but if an Initiate had completed their training, they had the right to request a smaller, more intimate ceremony right away if the Papa of their choice was willing to do so (and _boy_ was Copia willing).

The door opens, and Copia stands there in his formal blues, his manner professional, but his mismatched eyes predatory.

“Initiate, _per favore_ ,” he says as he gestures you into the room. As you pass by him (robes swishing against robes), he leans down to whisper into your ear, “Let us get you out of that robe, eh?” and then he gooses you.

You keep your expression fixed firmly in place.

The room is bathed in a warm glow from the candelabras spaced around the chamber and from the afternoon sun that’s filtered through the high, stained glass window. Lush tapestries that depict unholy scenes hang from floor to ceiling, broken only by a few Ghouls—in their shiny masks and polished dress shoes—standing at a parade rest in front of them. Sister Imperator, the other Papas, and a few other Senior Clergy members sit in ornate, mahogany chairs in a horseshoe around the granite altar—which is covered in red sheets.

Imperator is checking her watch, but Papa III winks at you and gives a thumbs up. Papa II merely appraises your form before nudging Primo—who has his eyes closed and his hands in his lap—with his elbow. His eyes pop open.

“I was just resting my eyes, brother.”

You kneel in front of them on the plush Oriental rug; your bare legs poke out of the slit as the sides part, and you wait for each of them to acknowledge you with a hand to your head.

“That’s fine, Initiate,” says Imperator in her clipped speech. “You may proceed with the Induction.”

Rising, you pull the robe tighter around your body, and turn to face the altar. Copia stands at the head, and he gestures you toward him with a flex from his gloved hand. Taking measured steps in order to not betray your enthusiasm, you approach your lover. He raises your chin with the tip of a leather-clad finger.

“Do you accept Lucifer into your heart willingly and with no hesitation, Child?”

“I do, Papa. Yes.”

“Do you accept this body as proxy?” He sweeps his hand up and down his person.

“Yes, Papa.”

He leans in to kiss your forehead as his one hand fumbles hastily with the sash at your waist. Once the knot falls apart, his hands slide into the garment and run up your sides—alighting briefly over your breasts—until they reach your shoulders; in a caress of a movement, Copia slides the fabric off your neckline, and the ends slither off your arms to pool at your feet. Even though your nudity is not a new sight to him, Copia still drinks in your bare form, and you see his hands twitch slightly toward you.

When Imperator clears her throat, Copia starts, then nods.

“Yes, _sí_. Very _bene_. Proceed, Initiate.”

Turning, you hold your head high, as if you were accustomed to being naked in a room full of high-powered and dangerous people.

At the other end of the altar is a set of booster stairs, and—with a slight nod from Copia—you use them to help you onto the flat, covered surface. You lie back onto the hard stone (feeling a little like you’re about to get your pap smear), but Copia’s hands are suddenly on your thighs and yanking you toward the edge, ruching the sheets under you. He manhandles you onto your stomach, the bunched fabric pushing into you, before draping himself over your back.

He presses his lips to your ear, and his breath is hot on your skin when he speaks. “We do it like this, yes?”

You moan in acquiescence as he sinks his fingers into your hair to grip it at the roots; Copia _knows_ how much you love being taken from behind. He mouths at your neck as he kicks apart your feet with his wingtips right before you feel a finger of his buttery glove glide into your slit. With deft, practiced movements, Copia teases your clit and hole while you thrash and jerk until even you feel your slick coating your inner thighs.

His warmth leaves you, and you hear a wet sucking sound moments before Copia lets out a contented moan. You look over your shoulder just in time to see him lift his chasuble and notice he’s completely bare beneath it. He fluffs the front end over you, and then you feel the poke of his cock; the tip of it runs through your folds a few times—paying special attention to your engorged clit (which has you clutching the sheet in tight fists)—before you feel its blunt head in an exquisite pressure at your hole.

The two of you moan in two-part harmony as Copia pushes into you and bottoms out. You clench hard around him in a tease, and he growls as he yanks your head back by the hair.

“Be a good little slut for Satan,” he snarls before shifting his hips back and then snapping them hard into you. You cry out as he punches into your sweet spot, and then you feel the leather of his other hand grip hard into your waist to pull you back onto his cock. 

Over, 

and over, 

and over again.

He lets your head go so he can better grip your waist, and when your head makes contact with the altar, you bite down hard into a crimp of sheets now a crumpled mess around you from Copia jolting you forward and jerking you back. Each hard slap of skin on skin has you crying out in little mewls as he grunts his pleasure over you.

Your folds are heavy with arousal, and each hit to your G-spot is a little tease. 

“Papa, _please_ ,” you whine, frustrated at your lack of climax.

“Please ‘what’, Child?” he rumbles.

“I want to cum, _please_.”

“So cum.”

“Please help me, Papa! I need … I need …”

He hefts you up at an angle, and then you feel his hand slide down; when the pads of his fingers make contact with your hard nub, you let out a gurgle and drool all over yourself. A few swipes at your clit as he pounds into you, and you’re careening over the edge. You let out a low moan as your arms flail back to grab at his robe or his flesh—whatever you make contact with first—while you shake and tremble as the waves of sweetness rush through you, causing you to clench in pulses around his cock.

Without any warning, your tits and face are suddenly smashed into the flat plane of the altar as Copia presses his body down into your back to chase his own release. The only indication you have that he finally reaches his climax is a couple of stuttering moans as his hard cock continues to plunge in and out of your soft, wet pussy before his weight slumps onto you fully; he rests on top of you for the briefest of moments while he sucks in great gulps of air; then, he places a stolen kiss to the back of your neck and wobbly straightens up.

Tracing the sign of the Grucifix into the sweat on your back, Copia rasps, “In the name of our Dark Lord below,” and the rest of the room echoes the refrain. You ease yourself up and are immediately approached by the other Papas, who shake your hand and make no attempt to hide their admiring gazes while Copia’s hand rests lightly on the small of your damp back. Imperator gives you the barest of smiles and a curt nod before handing over your new uniform.

Now, most newly minted Siblings choose to redress in their defunct robes so they can clean themselves back in their quarters before donning their new habits, but you shimmy on the habit and Sister’s veil without a second thought.

Copia’s cum dripping down your thighs is a small price to pay for walking out of your Induction as a full Sister with a smitten Copia on your arm.


End file.
